Powers of Suggestion
by Neon Tiger Painted Yellow
Summary: John's recurring nightmare doesn't go down too well with Sherlock. No slash as of yet but may be added later. Just to make it clear, John is on the phone at the beginning.


**Chapter 1 **

_**(Watson) **_

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock help me! It's getting closer, Sherlock! I can hear it! Help me!"

I could feel my voice getting hysterical now. How could he not hear it? Everyone was right about the hound. The infamous Hound of Baskerville. It really did exist. And I was going to be its next victim. Just like in those stories. How could Sherlock not hear it? Where the hell was he?

I could feel the hound's presence in the room with me, although the lack of light was making it even harder to make out a definitive figure. Everywhere I looked, a new shadow cropped up from nowhere, spontaneously manifesting itself where I thought the real hound should be. I knew my mind was finding it difficult to locate this beast, which was probably an explanation for my hysterical, raspy breath. All of a sudden, it felt like a thousand shadows were circling me; in a desperate bid to escape, I forced myself to move backwards into one of the empty cages, firmly pulling the door closed after me. I prayed that this metal box would be enough to stop the hound from ripping out my throat, but the relatively thin steel bars set some doubt in my mind. Then, as if my prayers had been answered, Sherlock's voice played into my ear.

"John? John, are you there?"

His voice sounded different than normal, but I chose to ignore it based on the fact that if I didn't talk soon, he was likely to lose interest and that would mean certain death for me.

"John? John, are you there?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm right here," I whispered hastily. "Sherlock, I need your help! I can hear it, I can hear the hound, but I can't see it anywhere! Sherlock, help me! Tell me what to do!"

"John? John, are you there?"

"Sherlock, I'm right here! Listen to me! I'm talking to you now and I need you! Sherlock, if you don't help me now I'm going to die, do you understand?"

Silence.

"Sherlock, tell me what to do! Help me!"

"John? John, are you there?"

I was about to scream down the phone at him to stop messing with my head because this time it wasn't funny. But something made me stop. I paused. Testing. The only sound breaking the silence was my ragged breathing.

"John? John, are you there?"

Trying to keep as calm as possible, I took the phone away from my ear, and lay it on the floor of the cage, just next to me, and rest my head in my hands, trying to accept that the last shred of hope I had had been a lie, and had slipped away from me. I could still hear the faint murmur of the recording of Sherlock's voice. In a state of sheer bitterness and annoyance, I slammed the phone shut, throwing it to the other side of the cage. How could I even think it was Sherlock? He left for 'a far more important case', leaving me to do his grunt work as per usual. Not caring, not looking back, not interested in what would happen to me if I did indeed encounter this hound. Damn him! Damn him, thinking that he is superior to everyone else! Damn him, getting me to do this for him, and damn him for not caring how it would end!

In my sudden anger and frustration, I hadn't noticed that the noises from the hound had ceased for about two minutes now. I searched around frantically, scanning for any signs of the beast, and froze suddenly as from the corner of my eye came a giant shadow, a silhouette cast in the shape of a dog, looming over the door of the cage. As I adjusted the angle of my head to confront this thing, I heard the slow high-pitched groan of a stiff handle turning. The door swung open, but slowly, and purposely menacingly, as if this thing solely intended to strike pure fear into my very core. All the while, the great shadow continued to loom overhead, growing ever closer to me. I was even more conscious of the fact that my heart was beating fast enough for it to explode at any second. It was so close to me now that I could hear the snarling of its teeth, the stench of the rotting flesh rolling off its tongue and burning the insides of my nostrils.

I was very aware now of the feeling that there was something in front of me, in the cage with me. I couldn't be sure there was something there, or if it was just my panicking that had caused me to hallucinate, but as a warm cloud of breath continually hit me in the face - each with more intensity than the last - I stopped putting this down to my imagination. I reached out a tentative hand to try to locate where this beast was. Although my hand was uncontrollably shaking, I reasoned that if I was going to die then I had to see what killed me. As I quickly found what I assumed was the side of its face, I felt the vibrations of a low snarl rip through its throat. Before it was possible for me to blink, this huge beast suddenly revealed itself out of the shadow in front of me, and I instantly retracted my hand. Its face drew closer to mine, the snarl still rippling down its throat, a combination of blood and saliva dripping from its fangs.

Within a second, it opened its jaws, lunged forward, ready to sink its teeth into my neck and rip out my - "AAAAAHHHHH! Aaahh! Aaahhh!"

I bolted upright in my bed; sweat dripping from my forehead, having already drenched the sheets. I never thought I'd be as glad as I was now to see the plain dark walls of my bedroom, yet this was a joy I was experiencing every night now. I realised I was still screaming, and although I was unclear as to how long I'd actually been screaming for, it had obviously been long enough for me to wake Sherlock. As he stood in the frame of my door, just staring down at me - the sharp definitive features of his face silhouetted by the glare of the moon from through my small window - I found it in myself to regain my sense and stop screaming, and instead an immense wave of guilt flooded through me.

He remained silent for a few minutes, just standing there, looking at me whilst I went from screaming, to hyperventilating, to eventually my regular shallow breathing. I was a bit shocked to see that Sherlock had actually stayed this time, as a pose to the other times this had happened when he simply came in and told me to "Shut up". I suppose he was used to it by now, but there was something different about the way he looked at me this time. I just didn't know what it was.

"Sorry, Sherlock," I whispered, still trying to focus on maintaining my breathing.

"John, it's fine," he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

It obviously wasn't fine. He was showing clear signs of lack of sleep from me repeatedly screaming and waking him up each night. And a tired Sherlock meant that he found it increasingly harder to work on his cases. And no cases often made for an extremely frustrated and, perhaps more dangerously, a bored detective. I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of emotion knowing that I had caused so much distress to this man.

"Sherlock," I started. With only one word I could already feel the emotions slipping through and revealing themselves in my voice. I took a deep breath and continued. "It's not fine, and I'm sorry." I knew my eyes were beginning to fill with tears and I bit down firmly on my lip to stop them brimming over.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so, as if he was trying not to lose his patience with me.

"John, just leave it. Please," he replied simply, the bitterness strong in his voice. He was now looking directly into my eyes, and for the first time in a long time it felt like he was truly looking at me, rather than through me. He took another deep breath. "It was just a dream. Now go back to sleep."

The way he said it made me feel like I was five years old. Maybe this was all just childish behaviour. The way I was acting, the way I couldn't stop screaming. I could taste the blood seeping from my lip and I willed him out of the room so that I could be left alone to cry myself to sleep as a punishment for what I had done to him. All this weariness, this sense of defeat and lack of energy looming over him, it was all my fault. He didn't even try to fix his mental state using nicotine patches anymore. He still seemed reluctant to move, and so I turned over and buried my face into my pillow, hoping that he would see this as an attempt to sleep rather than talk, and then leave. The room had been silent for a good few minutes, and since I could only hear my disjointed breathing, I assumed that he had finally left. With my head still in my pillow, I closed my eyes and let the hot, salty flood of tears silently stream down my face.


End file.
